


A Reflection From the Road-Side Ditch

by Kittywitch



Series: A Society of Academics [2]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Mental Illness, Other, Physical Abuse, manic moments of no consequence, spousal abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-10 23:25:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3307145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittywitch/pseuds/Kittywitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate universe, a steampunk version of the sixth Doctor recounts his life; including a troubled childhood with his brother, that universe's version of the fourth Doctor, marriage to his ward Miss Brown, and a trial for a crime he insists his didn't commit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Matter of My Boyhood

I do not know where to begin my story, for while it principally concerns the matter of my young wife there is much of it that cannot be understood without a least a passing mention of my boyhood. My father had been a doctor of science, and it was expected that my brother and I would follow in his footsteps. We did, in our own fashions. It it true both of us attended the same college for many years and upon our graduation took up positions there.

I have been told that since a boy I have had these... episodes of madness, of raving or even violence at times. I say that I have been told because even to his day I have no memory of any of these, the best I could ever perceive was a sense of lost time. As I grew into the age of reason, I began to suspect that, while I did indeed have these episodes, as my family said, that I did none of the things that had been described to me. They said that I screamed and railed and even bit one of my teachers in my madness. I was sure that if I were to bite anyone for any reason I would remember, mad or not. They said that I once attempted to eat a cat alive--an absurdity. I have always had a fondness of cats rivalled only by my abhorrence of violence.

 

They even told me that once, when we were eight and twelve that my brother and I had gone down to the river outside our family home to fish. Fishing had been one of the few activities we could agree on and the only time I could not only bear by enjoy my brother's company, for he was quite sure that anything but his own silence would scare the fish away. I had never tried to explain to him that while a fish's ear is a delicate thing it is designed to sense changes in water pressure and it has no care what fool is nattering on above the surface; because unlike the fish I was quite able to make out every noise Thomas made and was grateful for the reprieve.

I do not recall what happened that day by the river, I only know that when I found myself I was alone and immersed in water to the knees, my sleeves and waistcoat soaked with river water. I was furious to have been abandoned by my brother, particularly in such a vulnerable state as my madness and so dangerous a spot as knee-deep in a river. Being a boy I cried a few angry tears but quickly wiped them away and stormed back to the house to tattle to our parents on how cruelly I had been abandoned.

I found my family crowded together in the parlour, a fire roaring though the day was warm and our parents fussing over my older brother with towels and a medicinal dose of wine to calm him. They both looked on the verge of hysteria. Thomas was in the worst state, he was drenched even further than I, his curly hair plastered to his head; and upon spying me he openly shrieked and hid in mother's skirts.

I found myself hoping that, rather cruelly I will admit, that I had made away from my brother somehow, perhaps dashing into the river in my madness-- yes, surely Thomas had dived in after me and that was why he was so drenched-- and upon not finding me, he had assumed his brother drowned and ran crying to our parents to tell them how had had lost me. In that fleeting instant I imagined my parents' sorrow at never expressing the proper love to their younger child, their joy that I was safe and well! And my brother's shock at seeing his brother retrieved whole from the grave--that would account for the terror in his young eyes.

This was my first thought, and for some time after I became more and more sure it was at least closer to what happened than what was then described. This story came out broken it three voices as each spoke over each other, in the improper order so that it took some time for me to work out the story at all.

As we sat by the riverside, I had turned upon Thomas and with no provocation, at least none beyond my standard resentment of his person, set upon him and dragged him into the water, pressing him beneath the surface with my knees and hands and holding him there to drown him, until at length he fought free and ran to the house. I insisted this was impossible, Thomas was older and taller than I, and while I had no memory of the matter the very idea I, a child, would suddenly turn upon my brother and try to kill him was absurd. But no, Thomas was loved and I was mad; and after all, I had no memory of the matter, so what was I to say about it? There was much shouting and crying for weeks after, and talk of having me sent away to some sanatorium or another. But father would not hear of the shame of having a member of his family shut away, I believe the phrase "I would die before letting my blood rot in some madhouse" was used at one point or another. Really, I find it almost touching that this could be looked at as either denying me medical care or the most affectionate action my father ever took toward me. It seemed to me that the subject was raised whenever I started to act the least out of line, as boys do, and I found it most profoundly unfair.

 

Our parents made no secret of the fact Thomas was better loved, though I was easily as clever as him; if not cleverer. And Thomas never had to rise above my tribulations, he was loved and he was eldest and he had no lost time filled only with the reports of those around him. Even so, I exceeded him in wit, charm and style. No one agreed with me on these counts, but I knew it to be true and the fact it was denied left me in a permanently sour mood.

 

For my part, I thought of this described madness as a sort of family joke and in my adolescence I did my best to express that I was as aware of its contrivance and humour but it never was abandoned. I say that I was aware of the humour, though I never thought the idea of inventing violence and trying to convince me that I had enacted it particularly amusing. But as I have said, I was the second brother, I was not Thomas and I was not loved as he was.

Still, I set myself along the academic path, burying myself in books and tinkering. It was I who had actually perfected the paracopter which is now a common enough sight over the skies of cities. I never fancied that it would be a mode of transport preferred by young women, but I cannot object to that. I experimented with it at my own peril, I might add. I never took on assistants as many in my field did; I was aware of the danger of holding onto a fairly heavy piece of machinery and leaping off a building in the hope that a few rapidly spinning blades, designed to fold away and flimsy in that respect, would keep you aloft, or at least prevent your fall from being a fatal one. Of course, as an employee of a college, it was required that I at some point encounter the students. My work in the mechanical arts had some bearing in the academic community and it was one of the few subjects I had ever been asked to speak on.

You can of course imagine my reaction to one of the college boys speaking out and expressing rather rudely that in entering a lecture by Dr. Baker on the subject of mechanics he had expected so see the elder of the brothers discussing his ridiculous clockwork augmentations to a hunting hound. Due to my family connections, I did not lose my position, however I was never asked to lecture again. It was then that I discovered that while I had thought myself finally grown and separate from this family, I was unable to escape it. No, even this position it seemed had been bought with the reputation of my father and the favour of my damned brother. Oh, how the students loved his lectures, not that I had any particular desire to be well-loved by my students, no more than I had to even have students in the first place but it was a nagging frustration to add a number of nameless faces to the list of people who viewed me as nothing more than the unfavourable brother. No one in all the world is as well-loved as my brother, and while perhaps there may be those more disdained than I none of them have had to live their lives in the shadow of that man.

We had divided our parents' property such that Thomas lived on the country estate with our ageing parents and I took up residence in the disused town-house. It was a bit dark and poorly repaired but I found it suited me. In theory, either of us would stay with the other when situations mandated it; but I avoided the country entirely and when forced into the city he always made his apologies that he had agreed to stay with one of his many friends.

 

I had rarely visited any of my colleagues, though I did join the same club as many of their number. The second to eldest of them was the only one I ever shared the company of outside of the school or the club. I do not believe for a moment that this was because of any favour on his part but rather, as could be observed by his behaviour with other gentlemen at the club his own personable nature. This is of course with the brief exception of the business with Dr. Davison. And although I cannot say whether or not he found my person agreeable it is through him that I met the girl who would become in succession my ward and my wife. Yes, I married my ward and while I am aware how distasteful that is, please allow me to explain my actions.


	2. The Matter of My Ward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Baker recounts how he met Miss Brown and took her into his household. While it in not gone into great detail, this chapter touches on abuse and mental illness.

Toward the end of some exertion, Dr. Davison came to me to enlist my help with some dreadful business at an opera house. It was an absolute delight to be pressed for assistance; and quite frankly I had always been fond of the opera, so I obliged. It turned out that he might have asked for it sooner, as he had stretched himself quite thin and injured himself greatly in some noble attempt or another to save a young girl's life.

With Dr. Davison indisposed, it was up to me to finish the rescue, thwart the villain, and transport both Dr. Davison and the girl to safety; and I really must say that I rose to the occasion admirably. The extent to which the villain was thwarted is a matter of some debate, but the important part is that he was no more trouble to the opera house, the girl survived, and the injured Dr. Davison was returned to his endless sea of wards.

Yes, it was that sea of wards that prompted the discussion that followed. The girl, a miss Brown, was at the time fourteen. She had lost her step-father in the business at the opera house, and he had been her sole living relative. At least the last she knew of, or who knew of her. As I mentioned, Dr. Davison had a remarkable number of young persons under his watch, as he had a rather bad habit of rescuing orphans from dangerous situations; which I had now witnessed. The idea of him taking on yet another on a professor's salary was absurd, and yet I could think of only one way to prevent it.

If Dr. Davison could handle-- was it three or five, I could never keep track-- young wards I could certainly see to one teenage girl. I offered to take miss Brown into my charge. I had the family's townhouse and my inheritance was certainly enough to look after one more person, at least until she married. She was quite close to marrying age already, a few short years would harm neither of us greatly.

I had never had, or indeed lived in a house with any children since I myself left the nursery and the school dormitories, and even that could not have prepared me for life with a young girl. I was completely at a loss as how to outfit her properly, much less arrange her caregiving. At least two of his wards were female, so I took what brief advice Dr. Davison mentioned at the club to heart and followed it as best I could. I do not think miss Brown appreciated it, as she was at the time quite wary of this strange man she had been foisted off on. Furthermore, I am fairly sure the the dressmaker's Dr. Davison had suggested had taken advantage of my ignorance. They knew how likely it was she would soon and rapidly transition to full womanhood and did not apprise me of the fact this meant an entirely new wardrobe. I actually bought that girl a bathing costume that she no longer fit by the time the weather permitted the activity, and no one stopped me!

 

As much as I could compare the experience of outfitting my ward to having teeth drawn, I find myself fondly wishing this were the summit of my problems. As I have said, I brought miss Brown into the family's townhouse which at the time only I inhabited. I gave her run of the house with the warning that she could interrupt my study at her own peril and instructed her to find a chamber to her liking. I had meant of course, a bedchamber; however that was not the first item to catch her interest.

Upon the first floor, toward the back, there was a small, poorly maintained conservatory. miss Brown found it almost immediately, and soon was pressing me on every item there contained. This was made more difficult by two facts, the first being that the conservatory had not been maintained since I had inherited the townhouse and now the plants that were not dead were cross-pollenating and creeping into each other's beds. The second was that I did not particularly care about the conservatory and never thought to learn what plants it contained. Miss Brown, however, took to life in a way I had rather not expected and asked if she might be allowed to take charge of the room and salvage what life was there. I had no use for the conservatory and was aware that some distraction would very probably be most beneficial to her in that time of upheaval. It was then miss Brown revealed to me a keen interest in botany, though of course having the triple dilemma of being lower class, American, and female had no expectations of being able to study it.

 

That evening, I went into the library and found every volume my family kept in the townhouse on the subject of botany and fetched them back to the bedchamber she had chosen to be her own. Stacking them in front of her door proved to be a mistake. Which she made known to me.

Though I did notice it immediately, the longer I spent in miss Brown's company the more I became aware of the most singular aspect of her personality: her ability to whine, complain, argue, scream and issue forth every disagreeable noise known to womankind. I had found for the first time in my life someone as discontent with the world as myself. At first I thought it might be her way of mourning or the stress of the transition affecting her, but as weeks progressed I began to suspect that this was as much her natural state as it was my own. I will admit a certain kinship felt in having my arguments met with further arguments rather than being simply told no one had to listen to me, as I was mad. This verbal dueling was frankly refreshing.

 

I had begun to comprehend the fact to argue was her nature and not her way of mourning when I discovered her actually expressing grief one night. I had been retiring sometime after eleven, given that I had been up late studying something that had as little to do with my work at the college as I could manage. As I passed miss Brown's chamber I heard a peculiar noise from within, and before I could consider that I was no longer alone in the house I investigated it. The girl was sitting up in bed, hunched forward and crying. I had no idea why she was doing so, I had never seen a girl in bed before, crying or otherwise. I asked her, and she shouted at me to leave, but I could not bear the thought of retiring myself with my curiosity unsated, to lie there in bed unable to sleep with this riddle when all it took to answer it was to press the young woman for an answer. I sat on the end of her bed and demanded an explanation, adding that I would remain there until one was provided. This did nothing but increase her reticence! As she worked me into a fury, I prepared to storm out before I had to bear her company any longer. The tears started up again and miss Brown admitted that she had gone through the ordeal that made our acquaintance again as she slept, and that this night terror woke her. But that was not why she was crying, no, she had been sitting up, too afraid to go back to sleep and found herself reflecting on the fact that she had no one to turn to or tell this disturbing dream. I offered myself as the only possible ally, given that what few servants we had left for the night. She then told me how exhausted she was of being foisted off from one man to another, from her original father and after his death, her stepfather; who had not been particularly forgiving of her verbal eccentricities. In fact she had only survived the business at the opera house because he had abandoned her on a boat before he went off and found himself on the wrong end of a madman. What a boat had been doing beneath an opera house in the first place I never understood. And then she had been rescued by Dr. Davison, who while he did seem to have a genuine interest in her well-being immediately traded her off to me, and, she sobbingly concluded, a day growing ever sooner I would find her a more appropriate home or some husband and be rid of her as quickly as every caregiver before me. I could not fathom how to address this, how a guardian ought to soothe a young woman's night terror. I had never before dealt with children younger than a college boys and my own parents had treated me with more terror than love.

I gave her what assurance I could that I would not trade her off to another man and that she would always have a home in my house. I fear the way I phrased it might have been a bit prophetic. I also fear that my lack of experience with children prompted my next action more than anything else, and that is how both miss Brown and I learned that fourteen is too old to comfort a child by allowing them to share your bed with you.

 

It was some months after this that I found myself recovering from one of my fits of madness. I was quite sure they had petered off in my adulthood, but occasionally I found myself awaking as if from narcolepsy. I was collapsed on the ground and my ward was lying quite near me, clutching at her neck and sobbing hysterically. I asked her what had transpired while I was delirious. At some length, she calmed down enough to relate that I had come upon her in the parlour, commented on her new dress, then began to rapidly deteriorate into a growing fury until I set upon her, dragged her to the ground and attempted to wring her neck.

I laughed at this nonsense and told her that she could not have me believe it when so many before her had failed. The idea of having this imaginary violence directed towards her was particularly absurd. To punctuate the point, I reached out to stroke her hair and she pulled away. The young woman was clearly terrified. As sudden and clear as a flash of lightning, I became aware of the fact she had been telling the truth. I found myself wondering why I had doubted her even for a moment. This is not to say that I know why it is that I trusted her. All my life I had assumed that my madness was at best an exaggeration, at worst entirely fabricated, but she had no reason to lie to me. This girl was honestly frightened of me. I knew then that not only was I mad--oh yes, I was mad, I had always been mad--but that my family had not been lying to me. That there was a violence to me in my madness. And I added myself to the things which I would have to protect my ward from.


	3. The Matter of My Wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Baker recounts the happiest period of his life: his marriage to the American woman who had previously been his ward.  
> Warning: This chapter contains reference to spousal abuse related to mental illness.

In the months that followed this, it became impossible to ignore the fact that miss Brown had not only outgrown the clothing I had bought her upon taking in but was actively transitioning into quite a pretty young woman. In fact she might have always been so, and I merely had not noticed until my home was set upon by suitors. Sadly, as was the style at the time more than half of those suitors were mad old men who were more interested in twirling their moustaches at young women, tying them to some machine or feeding them to some monster, and overall simply terrifying them out of their wits than marrying anyone at all.

The rest of the lot were no better, fit young heroes who were more interested in thwarting the first set than paying any favour to the young ladies whatsoever. Perhaps more distressingly, once a gentleman of any set had spent any time in her company they decided she, much like myself, was too disagreeable to be borne and she was quickly deposited back with me. On more than one occasion I had complete the rescues myself.

I was assured by the mad old men and my colleagues alike, who were mad old men themselves and I really ought to have realized they had even less experience with young ladies than I, that once miss Brown was married these attacks would taper off and would not be my business in any case. I found that mildly offensive, that after opening my home to her for so many years, that I would take no more interest in her life once she left me. Moreover, I had promised her not to abandon her or foist her off on another man when she became too much trouble.

Even if I had not had these objections, not one of these suitors stayed around long enough that the subject of marriage could ever be considered, and I was growing weary of the constant rescues. My ward herself had long since grown weary of the constant attacks had had professed that she would take any action to stop them.

As such, I came to the conclusion the only feasible solution was to disregard social protocol and the fact I was some twenty years her senior and marry her myself. I explained to her that I understood this to be the best way to ensure her safety. More than her safety, I hoped that in this situation her life would be better than were she left to the devices of whatever younger but less attentive suitor. She could remain in the the undeniably comfortable house we already shared, continue her studies on the subject of botany and maintain the conservatory she had brought to life. I had not intended to admit it, but I was painfully aware that the plants would return to their previous wild states, those that did not die entirely if I was left to care for them. The idea of that wrought by years of her attention wilting away under my hands as I lived out the rest of my days in an empty house saddened me more than I had realized until I verbalized it.

It took another assault on her person, and naturally another rescue on my part, to make her mind up. She agreed to become my wife.

 

            I would rather not go into particular detail on the subject of our wedding night. I will admit that this was one of the few subjects on which I found myself with any degree of ignorance and attempted to remedy this as best I could in the library, but short of a few anatomical texts and one rather torrid romance, whose entry into my house I never learned the story of, there was very little to read on the subject.

            All this had really made me aware of was the fact that having a middle-aged man lecture her about her own body was perhaps the least appealing wedding night imaginable; and yet I found myself doing so. My wife was such a small woman, we alternately tried to alleviate each other of the fear I would harm her in my affections. I found that I could easily fit my arms around her shoulders and rest my chin on the crown of her head. And much to my surprise, I found that I increasingly wanted to. At length, however, the two of us discovered something we both found most agreeable and quickly made a habit of it. That, and gymnostising, but we probably would have been arguing regardless of our state of dress. This is also how I learned that there was no emotion which my wife did not express by screaming.

 

There is a particular evening that comes to my mind when thinking of her. We had been married for little more than a few months, and my ever-sainted brother had called for dinner. He and his hound with its clockwork limbs had been parading about our home all evening, pointing out aspects of the house and making it impossible to put from the mind that he had spent as much time growing up here as I had. Worse, he kept bringing up stories of our childhood which I recently had to accept were true though I had no memories of them. Very few of them were actually incriminating, but the fact that a fit of madness happened to not be homicidal did not particularly endear me to it.

We had retired to the drawing room after supper. My wife was taking tea and Thomas had sent me out of the room for sherry, as if I were his servant and not master of the house he then occupied. I complied more as an excuse to storm from the room than anything else, and as I returned I discovered the actual nature of not only the errand, but his entire call.

He had bent over his knees and was speaking to my wife in his low, earnest voice, questioning her on her happiness and her very safety alone with me. Was she well cared for? Did I ever beat her? I had--I know I had though I could not remember it. I saw the evidence after my episodes and as a doctor I had bandaged her myself. I felt sick in my sudden acute awareness of it; this madness was not my fault but it was my responsibility. I shall always remember what she said to him that evening. She set the teacup into the saucer sharply and looked up at him.

"Dr. Baker, whatever else can be said about the man, he is my husband and I will not listen to him being spoken of in this manner. Not even by his own brother."

I do not believe anyone who has not lived their life in the shadow of my brother can understand the effect these words had on me. That anyone would defend me, me of all people, old and mad and wretched, so my so well-loved brother it was all I could do not to fling the door open and fall upon her, pathetic with gratitude. To our mutual dismay, I found that my wife had fallen in love with me; stranger still on reflection I discovered that this affection was reciprocated.

 

There were a few brief, shining years of public bickering, private affection and ruined trips to the opera. I have a particularly fond memory of _not_ explaining to the maids how it is my wife's knickers arrived in my study and knowing it myself. At times I assured her that she needn't worry too much about having married a man so much her senior, as this meant that when age or my own folly took me it would leave her a very young, pretty and wealthy widow. Whenever the subject was raised she would always insist that I not speak of such things, generally punctuated by phrases such as "I can't bear it" or actions such as burying her face in my chest. Still, the difference in ages presented certain benefits; for example I was under the impression that I was too old to sire any children, which turned out to be incorrect.

I am afraid there is very little to say on the subject of my son, except that it is believed that he died in infancy. I say it is believed because I do not know. I cannot know. I can only explain how it is I do not know by going into the matter of my trial.

 

 


	4. The Matter of My Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Baker finds himself on trial for a crime he does not remember committing, and is distressed to find himself without his wife.

I awoke from one of my spells of madness in a strange room. As usual, I had no memory of how I had arrived there. I assessed as quickly as could be managed that what I had awoken in was a courtroom and that there appeared to be a trial taking place. The judge looked exhausted and frustrated with the proceedings, rubbing her eyes and breaking up fights more like a school marm than a judge of law. The jury was a set of sour old men, many of whom I had crossed before if my patchy memory could serve at all. The prosecutor was a man somewhat my senior I was quite sure I had met before but never did place where that was. The most startling aspect of the proceedings, however, was the fact that when I came back to my mind I was already in the process of using my purely honorary credentials in defence of the only person fool enough to let me defend him in court. Myself. Perhaps the greatest evidence towards my insanity is the fact I did not claim it to my defence.

 

I immediately looked in the audience and witnesses for my wife, and not finding her I asked the prosecutor where she was. Though he immediately fell into a long, pedantic drawl I received no answer on this subject until the third repetition of the question, and that answer was the thoroughly unsatisfactory information that it had been mentioned before and that it would be discussed again when it came up in evidence. There was then a rather sideways comment on the subject of my sanity and the first of several unproductive arguments between myself and the prosecutor began. At length, the judge stopped us, as she would need to do several times during the trial.

 

The prosecution then presented what passed for evidence, some clear fabrication that more than being beyond that which I could do even in my worst state did not even bother to maintain an internal consistency. I tried to call this to the attention of the jury, but the bastard ignored my questions and taunted me, and I could not help but think of Thomas when we were boys, telling outrageous stories and knowing I would not have any evidence to contest them.

 

The night between the two days of my trial was the first I had spent alone since I had married, and as I sat alone in the cold cell, I could take no rest. No one had yet told me what had become of my wife, or of the child. As it would come to be, no one ever would tell me what had become of Frobisher; so I tried my best to believe he had somehow escaped this, perhaps he had fallen into the care of my brother or that of Dr. Davison, he was always picking up stray children.

 

The trial started up again the next day, and I found my questions answered. There was a moment where I found myself considering whether it had been better before I had an explanation to her absence than to be faced with what answers the prosecution had provided. I tried to consider the actions being attributed to me in the light of what she had taught me early in our relationship. I was violent in my madness, I had hurt her before. For all my brilliance and my noble aspirations I could lose myself in my episodes and do unspeakable crimes, even to those who I cared for. But these episodes--these attacks--had diminished to nearly non-existence under her care. This is not to say I was anything short of brilliant before her attentions; however her presence tempered my madness and improved my excellence. This is not to say that the taper had ended the episodes entirely, but now I was aware of them as I never had been in my boyhood.

But even still, I could not then and still cannot accept what the prosecution has claimed. It is nonsense of the highest order and I know it to be so without knowing any facts pertaining to the matter. I feel it in my bones the way one feels the actions of one's hand when removed from sight. The way a migratory bird finds its nesting ground, the way I knew her presence had improved my life. I want to be clear upon this point, though I can offer no evidence to the contrary.

 

I did not murder my wife.

 

Upon hearing of her death, I felt myself losing hold of my senses as I had before and tried desperately to keep hold of my lucidity. As I sank deeper into this emotional rage I thought to flee this travesty that dared dress itself in the trappings of justice. It was very probably the absurdness of my action that bought me what time I had to exit the courtroom, the courthouse itself and leap up into the seat of a hansom cab and pilfer it from its rather shocked driver.

There was a great deal of screaming and clattering upon my heels, I did not see who it was that pursued me, only how close they followed. A second, larger cart was soon giving chase, it's axles screaming as violently as those I had stolen. I had only just made it out of town when the road opened enough that the driver of the second cart had enough berth to draw up beside me and, lashing out at my horses, run me from the road.

I fell forward, rolling across the canopy and striking my head on something, I know not what. For those few seconds, every part of my body was battered by every part of my surroundings until I finally came to rest face-down in a roadside ditch with part of the horse's tackle pinning me to the ground.

I hardly feel I need to mention the pain of the experience. I fancied I could feel my very brain-pan fill with blood, but this was impossible. Were it happening, I would not be able to feel anything at all. It occurred to me then that I was dying, and that the discussion I had with my young wife multiple times during what years we had finally reached its conclusion. The blasted woman had done her last act of infuriating me by dying first, and the only way I had found to rebut this was get myself killed as quickly as I could manage.

And now, as I reflect on my ending life from this pool of blood in a road-side ditch; I find myself unable to think on the tribulation which was the majority of my life, violence and arrogance and madness; but rather of good natured arguments and a pretty head resting on my breast as we slept.

My thoughts of you, my dearest Perpugilliam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The abrupt end to this story was intentional, it was meant to echo the abrupt end to the sixth Doctor's televised run. The first time I watched it, I quite confused by the way the end of Trial of a Timelord didn't really lead into the beginning of Time and the Rani. Or rather, I thought that it was supposed to and the Rani crashed the Doctor's Tardis as he left Gallifrey. This confusion led me to wondering how that would have worked.  
> It is for that reason that in this AU, I killed off the character of Dr. Baker directly after his trial. I have considered reworking the ending, giving him a few stories after the death of his wife to echo the sixth Doctor's extended story in Big Finish. But as the story stands now, Dr. Baker dies directly after his trial; hence the name of this story: the whole business has been related by Dr. Baker to himself as he lies dying.


End file.
